Pillow Talk
by magicalyoyo
Summary: Their voices grow softer and thick with sleep until at last, Sara yawns and rubs her eyes. As she leaves, she gives Mila a small, secret smile. The spell isn't broken yet. "Goodnight," Sara whispers. "Sleep well." It's easier to tell stories than it is to tell the truth. This is the story of Mila and Sara, as told by the stories that they tell each other.
1. Chapter 1

Sara comes to Mila's hotel room in the middle of the night. They're in Sochi, but she's never felt farther from home. It's half past one in the morning and Mila's nerves are still jangling with the thrill of competition when her phone buzzes with a new text message. She nearly falls from her chair, startled by the noise, and then laughs hard enough to make her sore muscles ache anew. She thinks that if she looks into the mirror, she'll see her hair standing at attention, frizzed into a shapeless red cloud by the electricity that flows through her skates from the ice.

When she opens the door, Sara is standing in the hallway wearing pink pajamas and a pink blush across her cheeks. "I couldn't sleep," she says.

"Me neither." It feels like a secret between them – that they can wear bronze and silver and even gold, but something as mundane as sleep eludes them.

Mila uses the room's tiny coffee maker to heat water for tea. She laughs at Sara's expression. "It's something I read once," she explains. "It said that people boil their panties in the kettle sometimes, so I never use it."

Sara gags. "Really?"

"No idea, but ever since I read that, any tea I make with it tastes like-"

"No! Oh my god, stop talking," Sara squeaks, batting at Mila's shoulder like she can swat the words from the air like flies. "Ew! I mean- _ew._ "

They drink their tea, which tastes a little like stale coffee but not at all like a stranger's underwear, sharing the single chair at the single desk. The bed is behind them; it's a queen, but it doesn't have space for Mila and Sara and the flutter in Mila's stomach as Sara giggles and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Do you think we would have met if we were different people?" Sara asks. "Like, if we weren't skaters."

"Duh, the universe wouldn't dare try anything else," Mila replies immediately. "Even if I was-"

"- an American living in some tiny country town?"

"Exactly. We'd know each other since we were little, because the town would be so small that everyone knows each other. You'd start ballet and get popular and I'd try to join the junior football team, but they wouldn't let me even though I could take down any of the boys without breaking a sweat." Mila grins as Sara sticks out her tongue in mock outrage. "You'd- you'd babysit me when my parents had date night at the only restaurant for hours around."

Sara wrinkles her nose. "Babysit? I'm not _that_ much older than you."

"Limited options?" Mila shrugs.

"I'd babysit your younger brother," Sara decides. "It would be a two-person job."

"My brother?"

"Yuri," says Sara, and she laughs at Mila's expression. "He _is,_ don't even argue with me. Anyway, we'd team up to stop him from burning down the house, and when he got old enough that he just sulked in his room, we'd watch movies together."

"When he didn't need a babysitter anymore, maybe we wouldn't talk for a while," Mila continues. "But then you'd get a job at the gas station, and we'd talk every time I came in to buy gum. I'd buy a lot of gum."

"You'd drive a rusty old pickup truck that broke down every other week," Sara adds. "But you'd always offer to give me a ride home from work, and I'd always take you up on it, because otherwise Mickey would wait outside to walk me home. So every day, you'd come by on your way home from school. We'd spend a lot of time on the side of the road waiting for the tow truck, and we'd complain, but actually, neither of us would mind because it gave us time to talk."

"I'd tell you about my boyfriends," Mila says ruefully. "Mostly about breaking up with them. You'd wonder if I'd start to cycle through them again once I'd dated all the guys and most of the girls."

"I'd think that none of them were right for you," corrects Sara. "I wouldn't be brave enough to say so, but I'd admire how easily you opened your heart, and how you never let it turn you bitter. I'd tell you about my crush, and I'd wish I was as brave as you were, brave enough to ask them out. But I never would."

Their voices grow softer and thick with sleep until at last, Sara yawns and rubs her eyes. As she leaves, she gives Mila a small, secret smile. Their other lives, filled with fields and corn and broken-down pickup trucks, hover between them. The spell isn't broken yet.

"Goodnight," Sara whispers.

"Sleep well."

#

They talk to each other in snatched moments during practice and stolen hours of sleep. They discuss skating and music, Mila's relationships and Sara's quiet crush – but mostly, they tell stories. On the rare times they find themselves in the same city, they make tea in the hotel's coffee maker or curl up in a corner of the lobby and invent little worlds they call home until the conversation fades into silence.

Sometimes, they can't forget that the world will always rank one of them above the other, _second third fourth,_ though they switch places so often that neither Mila nor Sara can remember who's currently on top. Their stories carry an undercurrent of tension as the main characters walk the line between allies and rivals.

Mila always thinks that this will be worst when they meet during competition, but in fact, the opposite is true. When they're alone together, they cast away the camera-ready smiles and wash off the jittery confidence painted over their makeup.

"He's a jerk," Sara says. She pouts. "He didn't _seem_ like a jerk."

Mila thinks about Seung-gil. Silently, she disagrees. Out loud, she replies, "Lots of guys seem decent until they open their mouths."

"Oh well," sighs Sara. She shakes the disappointment off like it's nothing more than dust. "He probably has sex like he skates, anyway. Terrible PCS, I just know it."

She mimes a blank-faced thrust and Mila laughs so hard it's nothing more than airless wheezing until she chokes on her own spit and collapses to the bed, red-faced and gasping. Part of Mila wishes that she could stop and just _breathe,_ because her chest is starting to ache and there are tears streaking down her cheeks – she looks like a hot mess, but the kind of hot that's two blocks and a bus away from anything in the vicinity of attractive. The other part of her, the bigger part, is watching Sara's expression through blurry eyes. She's blushing, just a little, and smirking, just a little, the way she always does when she makes a joke that catches Mila off balance.

Her smile drops and Mila's laughter falls too. The ache in her lungs changes into something sharper and harder and _wanting._ She wants Sara to smile again.

"I'll murder him for you if you promise to give me an alibi," Mila offers, rooting through her emotional pockets and coming up empty-handed.

Sara's lips quirk, but she doesn't seem to be able to shake off the darkness that coats her mood. "No," she says finally, "it's not him. It's everyone else."

"Gossip." Mila spits it out like a curse, because it is one – a curse that deserves its own curse. Competitions are the perfect breeding ground for rumors and hearsay, a bubbling cauldron of tension and anxiety and contention that come out as bursts of petty drama. They were all the center of it at one time or another, but personal experience is enough to engender grudges but _not,_ apparently, empathy. "Offer for murder is still open."

"It's just-" Sara's hands flutter through the air. "Someone's going to talk about it, and then Mickey will throw a tantrum because he thinks he gets a say, and _then_ it'll end up on the internet and- ugh." She rolls her eyes. They're wet. Sara's tears usually stem from frustration or anger. Mila looks away. "That whole mess. I almost wish I was dating someone just so everyone would stop talking about who I'm _not_ dating. Maybe I should make up a story. A secret lover."

"Why a _secret_ lover?" asks Mila. She can feel the strands of a story beginning to twist together. They're subtle, as fragile as spiderwebs, but they always are to start out. "You could put on a show. That would really keep them busy."

"Like celebrities." Sara giggles. "If we were movie stars, we'd have to ward off unwanted suitors somehow.

"Who knows how well that would actually work," Mila grumbles, "but it would give the paparazzi more juice for the tabloids than prying into, like, our shopping lists."

"I'd ask you to be my girlfriend at a huge event, like the Oscars." Sara's face is bright, and Mila's cheeks must be incandescent. "You'd act surprised, but of course this would all be according to plan."

"We'd hold hands the rest of the night to make sure all the cameras got a few good shots," she manages to reply. Flashbulbs are going off in her mind; she can feel the sleek silk of a dress that cost more than a year's rent wrapped around her hips, the pinch of shoes that were made to be art instead of footwear. She can feel the warmth of Sara's fingers twined around her own. Mila swallows, trying to clear the lump from her throat with a gulp of imaginary champagne. "Of course, we'd thank each other in our acceptance speeches."

"That wouldn't be it, though. You'd be my plus one for every party, and Mickey would have to get used to it."

"We'd go on the best dates." Mila can't stop herself from picturing quiet restaurants, packed Broadway theaters, sparkling beaches. "Nothing would be too grand for my fake girlfriend."

"You'd spoil me," Sara says. Her smile is back at full force, dreamy and tinged with depths that Mila doesn't dare explore. "No one would dare bother us because they'd all see that we were the perfect couple."

"I'd call you cutesy pet names until you couldn't keep a straight face."

"Loser laughs first?" Sara grins as a spark of competition ignites. "You could try, _mi bella._ We Italians have many endearments, _mi cara._ You'd have to work very hard, _amorina, zuccherina, farfallina-_ "

"Did you just call me pasta?" It's hard to talk around the giggles that are beginning to bubble up. "Sara, Sarochka, Saranulochka. You underestimate me, _solnyshka,_ my mouseling, little berry…"

They start laughing at the same moment. Mila tries to claim victory anyway, but all she can get out is a low wheeze that sets them both off again.

This is her favorite story, Mila decides.

"I never want to fake-date anyone else," Sara says once she can speak, and Mila nods. It hurts, suddenly, their glittering fairytale romance.

It's still her favorite story.


	2. Chapter 2

"So," Mila says, "there was a princess."

Sara nods encouragingly. Her face on the screen is jerky and pixelated. "A princess?" she prompts.

"With two older brothers, and one younger," Mila continues. She keeps her voice low; she doesn't want her flatmate intruding on her story. She can see Sara lean closer to her computer, despite the earbuds visible under her loose hair, and turn the volume up. "The eldest brother, the crown prince, was always the star. None of the others could compete with him, though they all tried.

"At least, no one could until the youngest prince came of age and challenged him. Suddenly, everything changed. All anyone cared about, including the king, was the two princes. Nothing the other two did seemed to matter."

"The princess was upset?" Sara asks softly.

"She was pissed," Mila agrees. "She was tired of her eldest brother always being the- the best, but she was angry at the youngest prince. The princess felt guilty about it, but she couldn't stop herself. She _wanted_ him to succeed, she did, but she was jealous."

Mila takes a deep breath. She wants Sara to join in, to take over the tale, but Sara stays stubbornly silent.

"It felt like the prince was taking everything. One day at dinner, it was too much. The princess wanted him to know what it felt like. She started to joke about courting his- his betrothed, a knight from a neighboring land."

"His betrothed?" Sara cuts in, her soft lips curving into a surprised _oh._ "Are they-"

"No." Mila shakes her head, then shrugs. "I don't think so. Not yet. Sometime, probably."

"Five euros says within two years," Sara says. "Anyway. Go on."

"Four years, they're both idiots. Anyway, the princess started joking about eloping with the knight, and she got what she wanted. The younger prince was enraged. But the princess-" Mila bites her lip. "She kept going until it didn't sound like a joke anymore. She knew that the prince was scared, but she told herself that he was overreacting, that she was only joking. Their argument got louder and finally the crown prince stepped in. He told her to apologize. That only made her more upset, and all she could think was that _of course_ he was coming to their younger brother's defense."

Mila falls silent. Eventually, Sara asks, "What happens next?"

"The princess was banished. She was ordered not to come back until she could behave properly, and she stormed out without another word." Mila frowns and picks at her fingers. There's a hangnail on her left thumb. It stings, and she winces as a drop of blood beads along the edge.

"Stop that," Sara scolds gently.

"As the princess left the castle, she didn't grow calmer." Mila reaches over to grab a pillow from her bed and sets it in her lap, wrapping her arms around it. "She knew that she could go back right then and apologize, and everything would be okay… but nothing would change. The youngest prince's achievements would be celebrated before her own, and it would go on like that forever. Instead of turning around, she got angrier and angrier."

"And then?"

"And then, when it seemed like the entire world was against her, the princess started to change. She grew taller, and her teeth got sharper, and her hot anger turned into fire in her belly. Her skin turned into scales. She'd become a dragon. She flew away and swore never to speak to her family again." Mila grits her teeth. "They tried to talk to her, they sent letters, but she ignored them. She was still angry, but more than that, she didn't know how to fix it. She couldn't talk anymore without burning everything around her, because she breathed fire whenever she tried. The dragon decided to stay in her cave. She didn't know what else to do."

"What happened after that?"

"Nothing," Mila replies. Her voice sounds too hard, too sharp. "That's the end."

"I don't think so," corrects Sara. "You forgot the next part."

"The next part?"

"A knight came to the cave. She knew that the princess-"

"She's a dragon now, not a princess."

"She's both." Sara gives her a stern look and Mila quiets down. "The knight knew that the dragon princess didn't really want to start fires, no matter how upset she was, so she avoided the flames and let the princess talk about what was bothering her. The knight understood why the princess was angry, and why the princes were mad at her."

"So she saw why the dragon couldn't go back to being a princess?"

"She knew that it wouldn't be as easy as walking back and pretending that nothing had happened. A simple apology wouldn't solve the problem," Sara tells her. "And she realized that the princess, upset as she was, had forgotten something."

"What had she forgotten?"

"She forgot that the youngest prince would also understand," says Sara. "He was mad at her, yes – but he was mad because he felt the same way she did. See, the knight and the princess had known each other for a long time, and the princess had a lot of other friends, too. She had lovers and acquaintances and friends and her knight, and so when she joked about eloping with the prince's fiancé, the prince was scared. He didn't _think_ his knight would abandon him, but they hadn't known each other for very long, and he hadn't been close to anyone besides his family before. And even with his family, he'd had a… a rocky relationship, sometimes. So when the princess talked about stealing his knight, he looked at all _her_ knight, and her friends and her lovers, and thought that she had all of these people and she still wanted the only one who was truly his. And he didn't understand why. The prince was young, and naïve, and a little selfish sometimes, and he didn't think about how the princess felt watching him rise to glory while she was pushed to the side."

"What did the knight tell the dragon?"

"The knight told the princess that she thought she knew what to do – she knew how to turn her back into a princess. A human princess. She said that she thought the princess had to talk to the youngest prince and tell him _why_ she'd been upset, and why she'd said what she'd said. And _then_ she had to apologize."

"The prince wouldn't forgive her."

"Not right away, no, but the princess has to give him a chance. She can't just keep being a dragon and living in a cave and breathing fire forever."

"What about the next time the princess gets angry? She might just turn into a dragon again."

Sara shrugs. "Then the knight will come back and find the princess in her cave, and listen to her, and help her figure out what to do."

That makes Mila smile, just a little, just enough to make Sara's eyes brighten. She wishes they weren't thousands of kilometers apart, wishes that she could reach out and take Sara's hand. "Where would the princess be without her knight?" she asks.

"She'd manage on her own," Sara says. "Eventually. She might burn down a few more towns first, but she'd get there."

It's late, and both dragons and knights have to sleep eventually. They say goodnight when Mila's eyes are gritty and Sara can't stop yawning long enough to speak.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sara." Mila leans into the door and rests her forehead against the slick lacquered wood. "Sara. Sarochka," she calls, half-singing. "Saranuloch-"

The door flies open. Mila stumbles forward, nearly tripping into a bemused Sara, who frowns. "Didn't we say noon?"

Mila's stomach growls at the reference to lunch. "Yeah, we did, but did I leave my purse here?"

The room is as tidy as Mila's is messy; it only takes a few moments to glance over the cosmetics lined up beside the sink and the bare bedside table. For good measure, Mila goes through the desk drawers and opens the closet, where Sara's costumes and clothes hang neatly. When Sara looks away, Mila touches the tiny ironing board. It's warm.

She starts to shift the pillows on the carefully made bed, but Sara swats her hand away. "Mila," she scolds, only half-playful. "It's not here."

"But I can't think of where else it would be," Mila whines, throwing herself onto the bed. Her words are muffled by the blanket. "I looked everywhere. It has my room key and my phone and my wallet and-"

Sara grimaces in sympathy. "Where did you last have it?"

"I don't know," Mila wails into the duvet. She sniffs and Sara pats her shoulder. The bedspring squeaks as Sara stands up, and a moment later, an apple is pushed into Mila's hand. She's tempted to continue her facedown sulk, but her stomach growls again and she sits up.

"We're going to figure out where it is." Sara drops into the chair, props her feet up on the desk, and leans back. "Well, ma'am, why don't you tell me what happened?" she says, adding a twang to her voice like she's in an old American movie.

Mila stutters over her line as Sara's eyes rake from her toes to her face. "You'll take the case?" she finishes. She's used to performing in front of audiences of thousands, but even with no medal waiting on the other end, Sara's soft presence is louder than any crowd has ever been.

"It's not my usual gig," Sara replies. She takes a drag off of an imaginary cigarette. "But times are hard, and you seem like a nice lady."

"Thank you, Detective." Mila dabs at her cheeks with a tissue; her lips are sticky with apple juice. "I must have had it this morning when I left for- for work, and I realized it was missing when I found myself locked out of my room."

"You returned home directly after work?"

"Yes."

"And did you use anything from your purse while you were working?"

"I'm not sure," Mila admits. "I can't remember."

"Fortunately, ma'am, my sources are a bit more reliable than your memory," Sara says. "Practice began at seven, correct? I have here-" she pulls out her phone- "proof that your mobile, and therefore your purse, was in your possession until ten fifty-three a.m. at the earliest, as evidenced by messages sent to one Sara Crispino. Are you certain that you didn't simply leave it at the rink?"

"They didn't have cell phones then." Mila sticks her tongue out at Sara. "And _yes,_ I checked."

"Hush," Sara tells her. "I'm the detective so I make the rules, and there are cell phones." Her old American accent is back as she continues, "Well, ma'am, did you check Lost and Found?"

Mila blinks. "Um. No."

"Then we've got our first lead."

They step into the hallway. Mila feels oddly exposed: their stories have always been held separate from the rest of the world, existing in their own little space, their own little time. They join a pair of elderly men conversing in rapid Mandarin and a woman leading two young boys in swim trunks as they step into the lift. She'd holding a book. The title is in German.

Mila makes a face at the boys – the older one giggles while the smaller hides behind his mother's legs – and wonders if the Finnish signs exist more to help the hotel staff than the guests. Most of her time in hotels has been during events in which the skating world has descended on the city like a dense fog, and in her mind, much of the world is populated by the same several-hundred-odd people. Here in Helsinki, during Worlds, she could probably go the entire two weeks without hearing more than a few words of Finnish. It's uncomfortable to realize that she could travel the whole world and manage to avoid almost all of it. It feels like being trapped within herself.

She glances at Sara, who puts a finger to her lips. _We're undercover,_ she mouths, and winks. Mila nods back. The sense of loss, of missing out, expands, and it steals her breath before dissipating a moment later.

It's a quick walk to the rink. Anyone could say what they like about convenience and organization, but Mila knows the truth: skaters are lazy.

The man at the information desk shakes his head as she asks about her purse.

"Looks like it's time for some old-fashioned investigating," Sara whispers into her ear. She opens the door to the rink proper. "After you, Miss."

Mila recognizes all the faces on the ice and around its edges, but she can't quite put names to any of them. She's trying to figure out who to ask first when one of the coaches waves to Sara, beckoning them over.

"Sure I can't tempt you back into ice dancing, Sasou?" she asks, beaming at Sara. "You and Mickey would make quite a team."

"I'm afraid not," Sara demures, but she leans in for a hug. "And it would be time for us to retire before you finished training us up. Anyway, this is-"

"Mila Babicheva, yes? Dina Awad. I worked with Sara when she and her brother were younger."

"It's nice to meet you," Mila replies, straightening her shoulders. She wants Dina to like her, which is not unusual – as much as she pretends otherwise – but it feels more important now, looking between Dina's cheerful gaze and Sara's fond smile. She swallows the sensation, the same way she forced down the twinge of anxiety when Sara mentioned retirement.

"We're doing a bit of detective work," Sara explains. "Did you happen to see a stray purse when you came in? It's black with pink trim."

Dina hums to herself. "It wasn't exactly stray, but I did see- what's his name- Katsuki carrying a bag like that when he left."

"He's your rinkmate now, right?" Sara asks, turning to Mila. "He probably recognized it and meant to give it back to you."

Then they're off again.

"I knew the trail wasn't cold yet." Sara's eyes are sparkling. "Do you know what room he's in?"

"No." Mila sighs. "I'd text him and ask but… no phone."

"My network is on it," Sara states, already texting. "Phichit says he's in 417. We just have to hope our suspect is in."

"Suspect?" Mila holds a hand to her mouth, then fans herself. "You don't think-"

"In my line of work, no one is innocent," Sara growls, and they both laugh.

Yuuri is in his room.

"Um, I had to shower, so I gave it to Viktor," he says, blinking at them owlishly from behind his glasses. "He said he'd find you and make sure you got it back. I guess he, uh, might have forgotten."

"Someone alert the press." Mila rolls her eyes. "Thanks for grabbing it, though."

"He was going down to the café to meet Christophe," Yuuri adds. "If he comes back I'll let you know."

The door shuts. Sara and Mila look at each other and groan simultaneously.

To Mila's surprise, they do find Viktor in the hotel's small café and bar. He does not, however, have her purse. He also doesn't have any idea what she's talking about.

"Oh, I remember!" he finally exclaims. "I met Yura in the lift, and since he wasn't busy, I asked him to find you. I did text you."

"My phone is in my bag," sighs Mila.

"Oh." He shrugs and takes out his own phone to make a call. "Yura said he wasn't doing anything-" Mila took this to mean that Yuri had snarled and told Viktor it was none of his business- "so I'd guess he's in his room."

And back up they go.

This time, there's no response when they knock.

Sara looks tired as she says, "Break for lunch? " Her detective voice is gone; their stories have gone on for much longer than this, but with fewer treks back and forth.

"I have one more idea," Mila replies, dragging herself upright from where she's slumped against the wall. "Can you text Leo and ask him where Otabek's room is?"

Otabek, at least, answers immediately. In addition to opening the door, he answers their questions before they can ask them.

"Is this your purse?" he says in lieu of greeting. Mila is so relieved that it takes her a moment to realize that, first, it's more words than she's ever heard him say without prompting and, second, there's a tuft of blond hair sticking out from the covers on his bed. Sara pokes her in the ribs to get her attention, but Mila is already filing the scene away in her mind.

"Yeah," she says, looking back to Otabek. His face is unreadable. "God, thanks."

"I didn't open it," he tells her, and it sounds more like an apology than a defense. "I thought you might kill me."

Beside her, Sara snorts. Mila smirks. "Smart boy."

They're both too worn out to finish their story, so they make do with cabbage rolls and piimä instead.

"This will be hilarious later." Sara yawns into her meal. "How does your rink even function?"

"I have no idea," Mila says, shaking her head. "I have no fucking idea."

Her annoyance has faded. It was nice to live a story, she decides, as well as telling it.


End file.
